


not as strong as he thinks he is

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant up to the end of S4 E3, Comfort, Gen, M/M, Mentioned Eurus Holmes, Mentioned John Watson, Mentioned Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Mild Angst, Post-Sherrinford, Post-The Final Problem, Pre-Slash, mystrade, sherrinford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25230841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: After Sherlock asks Lestrade to see to it that his brother is looked after, Greg finds himself in a strange conversation with Mycroft Holmes.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 32
Kudos: 173





	not as strong as he thinks he is

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnneCumberbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneCumberbatch/gifts).



> My first singular Mystrade ficlet for @annecumberbatch's birthday! 
> 
> Happy birthday to a great friend, a fellow lover of angst, and a fantastic writer 🎂

The clean-up was going to be big. Huge. Greg could already see that, and he looked toward the morning with something much like trepidation. Part of him wanted to dive in and get started, while another, larger part craved the warm comfort of his bed. Empty it may be, in his new bachelor flat, but right now, with the world seemingly having fallen down in several strange ways, it seemed a hell of a lot more tempting than whatever had gone down at Sherrinford.

But Greg had something else he had to do first. Sherlock has asked him to make sure his brother was looked after, and if Greg was anything, he was a man of his word. With two somewhat watery vending machine coffees in hand, he found himself en route to a small waiting room within the local police station.

Mycroft was sitting in one of the hard plastic chairs lining the bare wall. Elbows balanced on his knees, he had removed and draped his suit jacket over the empty seat on his left. Even during crisis, the elder Holmes was immaculate in the care of his clothing.

He looked up at Greg’s approach. The fluorescent lighting wasn’t kind, even in the best circumstances, but Greg could still see the visible impact that the Sherrinford ordeal had left on Mycroft. His face was pale, drawn, his vibrant eyes faded. He looked exhausted, worn-down, like a man who had his entire world turned on its head. And, Greg supposed, he had.

“Here,” he said, offering one of the lukewarm Styrofoam cups. Mycroft blinked, looked up at him and took the coffee slowly. His hand shook, and the muddy brown liquid sloshed toward the edges. With apparent effort, Mycroft steadied his grip.

“Thank you.” His voice was polite, heavy and formal, his back straightening out of his hunched posture as if by instinct.

The corners of Greg’s mouth twitched, but he swallowed the teasing comment that rose on his tongue. “No problem.” Without waiting for an invite, he sat in the empty chair on Mycroft’s right, letting his own coffee dangle from his fingertips between his knees. “Hell of a night,” he commented. Mycroft blinked slowly at his side before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He didn’t speak for a long moment, and Greg had begun to think he wouldn’t when Mycroft sighed.

“Did you need my statement, Detective-Inspector?” There it was again, that tense, overly-formal tone. After years of taking Sherlock’s endless insults and snippy words, it was a refreshing respite for Greg. However, the man at his side had just endured a trauma—likely several—and the polite façade seemed more reflexive than anything else. A defensive reaction, a castle closing its gates to siege.

“No,” Greg said slowly, sipping at his coffee. It tasted like burnt dirt, and he grimaced. Clearing his throat, he added, “That can wait until tomorrow.”

“Right.” Mycroft was quiet for another long moment. Greg had nearly counted to 100 before the silence broke again. “Are you a family man, Detective-Inspector?”

The question took him by surprise, and Greg frowned. “Ah, Greg is fine,” he said, buying himself time.

“Short for Gregory, I presume?”

“Well, yeah, but everyone just calls me Greg.”

Mycroft’s lips pursed. “I think not,” he paused, then added, “Gregory.”

Stifling a smile, Greg turned Mycroft’s earlier question over in his head. Slowly, he stretched out his legs, letting his boots thump against the tiled floor. “Am I a family man?” He caught Mycroft’s terse nod from the corner of his eyes, and he shrugged. “I sure tried to be.” Taking another sip of the dismal coffee, he tapped a finger against the soft styrofoam. “Didn’t work out so well, if I’m honest.”

“Ah,” Mycroft mused. He crossed his legs at the ankles. “Then, perhaps, you understand my dilemma.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose. “Dilemma?” he repeated, gently prodding. Mycroft was staring at the wall across from them, his eyes unfocused.

“I tried my best,” he said, his voice soft and level. “To look after them. My siblings.” He frowned, eyes narrowing. “Somehow, it’s never quite turned out as I’d hoped.” Running the edge of his thumb over his bottom lip, Mycroft shook his head slowly. “Sherlock could have died today. Along with Doctor Watson. And myself. At the very worst, Sherlock could have lost one of us.”

Greg’s brow furrowed. “He could have lost both of you—isn’t that the worst?”

“No.” Turning, Mycroft regarded him steadily, his eyes dark. “If Sherlock had lost Doctor Watson, his friend, confidant, and 'blogger,’ while I had survived, who do you think he would hold responsible?” He shook his head, steepling his fingers together under his chin. The gesture reminded Greg forcibly of Sherlock. He blinked slow, tired eyes to banish the mirror image as Mycroft added, “So, you see, Gregory, the outcome of today was the best it could have been. But, at what cost?”

“I don’t know,” Greg admitted. Mycroft’s lips tugged down at the corners, and he unlaced his fingers, spreading them palm-up in a helpless gesture.

“Neither do I,” he sighed. “So you see my dilemma.”

Frowning down at his coffee, Greg shook his head. “But no one can know the future. No one can predict the outcome of things.”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched. It was nearly a smile, albeit a wry, sardonic one. “How quaint,” he said. Greg shot him a look, but where he expected derision, he instead saw a glimmer of amusement in Mycroft’s eyes. They were similar to Sherlock’s, but only in that they were pale. Whereas Sherlock’s never seemed able to settle on a singular hue, Mycroft’s were a bright, icy blue, focused and steady on Gregory’s face.

They were almost hypnotic.

“Tell me, Gregory,” Mycroft said, breaking into Greg’s thoughts. “Did Sherlock send you to check on me?”

Greg hesitated, before realizing that, if Mycroft was anything like his younger brother, he would see through any lie before it had finished exiting his mouth. He shrugged again. “He might have. But I would have done it anyway.”

Eyes narrowing, Mycroft studied his face. It was a sharp stare, cutting Greg to the core and decidedly even worse than when Sherlock did it. Whereas Greg only ever felt annoyed when Sherlock read him, he now felt a strange and inexplicable thrill at holding Mycroft’s full and undivided focus.

“Would you have?” Mycroft mused, sounding as if he were asking the question of himself, rather than Greg.

Greg answered regardless, the words out of his mouth well before he could stop them. “Of course I would.”

“And why is that?” Mycroft pressed, his eyes hardening.

Tilting his head, Greg blinked. “Because you’ve had a hell of a night, and I’d want to make sure you were alright.”

A small smile played along Mycroft’s lips, and his eyes softened, just slightly. “Interesting.” He paused to uncross his legs, his expression thoughtful. That sharp, searching gaze raked over Greg again. “You’re a man of principle, Gregory.”

Greg’s eyes widened before he chuckled. “Am I?”

“Oh, indeed.”

“Well,” Greg scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “If you say so.”

Mycroft smiled. To Greg’s eyes, it looked genuine. He hoped it was. “I believe so, for what it’s worth,” Mycroft confirmed.

Laughing, Greg tipped a finger to his forehead in a half-salute. “For what it’s worth, thanks.”

“You’re most welcome.”

Quiet followed Mycroft’s words. Greg considered the dregs of his coffee and thought better of finishing. He almost wondered if it was decaf, as he felt even more tired than before. With the conversation at a comfortable, natural end, exhaustion was beginning to seep back in. Clapping his palms against his knees, he rose. “Well. I better get some sleep if I’m going to sort all this out in the morning.” He glanced at Mycroft. “Any arrangements I can make for you?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, thank you, Gregory. I will remain here until my sister is released, and Sherlock and Doctor Watson are safely back on Baker Street.” He didn’t say anything more, and Greg nodded, turning to leave.

He had just reached the doorway when Mycroft’s voice called him back.

“Didn’t work out for you, did you say?”

Turning back, Greg frowned. “Sorry?”

Mycroft was looking at him with a curious expression. He smoothed his hands over the blue material of his suit vest as if fidgeting. “The family aspect,” he clarified. “You said it didn’t work out for you.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, wondering where this was going. “Not so much.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft squinted at him. There was a moment before he spoke again. “Does that mean your evenings and weekends are sometimes free?”

“Uh, aside from the occasional overtime and custody visit with the kids.” Greg tilted his head, speaking slowly as Mycroft offered a pleasant smile.

“Perhaps you would be amenable to sharing dinner with an interested party, then, sometime?” Mycroft’s voice was perfectly polite, the words casual, but Greg noted a hint of cautious uncertainty beneath the façade.

“Would that interested party be you?” he asked. Mycroft cleared his throat.

“It would.”

Greg’s lips twitched. “Then yes,” he said, a slow grin shifting his expression. “I think I would be.”

Mycroft returned the smile with one of his own, a faint tinge of colour rising in his cheeks. “Splendid. Then, it's a date.”


End file.
